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who_contestTitle: Uneasy Lies The Head
Rating: G
Genre: General/Humour
Pairings/Characters: The Eleventh Doctor, Porridge
Spoilers for Nightmare in Silver
Word count: 1060
Warnings: None
Summary: Being responsible for all of known space is the loneliest job in the Universe. Porridge seeks advice from the only man in 1,000 galaxies who knows what it feels like. (He is less than helpful.)
There had been an important reason for arranging this meeting, but Emperor Ludens Nimrod Kendrick Cord Longstaff XLI - known as Porridge for convenience's sake - had quite forgotten what it was.
Not that his companion seemed to mind. They'd played a few games of monster chess, and rescued a bottle of something evil-smelling from the kitchen stores. By the third glass the floor had begun lurching in an uncooperative fashion, and Porridge could no longer feel his toes. Luckily the sides of the throne had the grace to stay put, so he clung on and hoped for the best. Every so often fragments of conversation - though at this point it was more of a monologue - came into focus as if swept in on a tide.
"-and I still say I should have won that drinking contest fair and square, only it turned out two of them were androids. Cheating really, if you think about it, but fantastic blokes. They're on my Christmas card list. Here, have some more."
"Ta."
They clinked goblets, and the Doctor leant back until his boots touched the opposite wall, free hand massaging at a crick in his neck. "These chairs have lumps in them. Defender of humanity, and you don't even get any comfy furniture. I'd complain to someone if I were you."
Porridge sighed. "You're a private guest of the Emperor. S'not supposed to be comfy. That's why we have the robes and the beheadings and the- big ugly sticks."
"Sceptres."
"Yeah, those."
In fact Porridge had nothing against sceptres, per se. They were good for making people notice you, which was half the battle when it came to ruling them. The problem was that Porridge had quite enjoyed being ignored. You got so much more done when nobody cared whether or not you did it.
That was the talent that he envied most in the Doctor. The man had found a way of being both anonymous and immortal at the same time, and as a result he could fit an entire revolution into one afternoon. He had taken the Universe's indifference and turned it permanently to his advantage. Everybody else - and that included the Imperator of known space - was left filing the paperwork in the aftermath.
Which reminded him. "Can you be here next week? There's this Axolian trade delegation on their way over, and I've got to do the meet-and-greet. Could use a friendly face."
The Doctor's features rearranged themselves into an expression of intense boredom - or perhaps tranquil fury. It was getting hard to tell. "You'll be wasting your time there. Most dedicated bunch of pen-pushers this end of the galaxy, the Axols. They'll need two days and a qualified majority vote to decide what they want for breakfast."
That fourth glass had been a mistake. The gently drifting stage of intoxication had given way to a depression which coated everything with a grey film, like silt. There was a dull ache behind Porridge's eyes that he knew would only get worse as the night wore on. "Yeah, well. They wanted self-government, and they got it. You can build all the statues and make all the imperial decrees you want; people will ignore 'em if it means they can carry on with whatever makes them happy. Unless I watch out, even the big ugly stick won't be doing me any favours much longer."
Perhaps there'd be an uprising. He'd like that. He could go into exile on some conveniently desolate planet and have people remember him with vague nostalgia, the same as before. Blood would end up getting spilt, though, and there lay the flaw in the fantasy. His conscience was less robust than the Doctor's, and he didn't have centuries in which to forgive himself.
The shift in mood must have been palpable, because nobody had said anything for a good thirty seconds. Porridge, his small frame hunched with misery, was gazing down the neck of the bottle as though he might disappear inside it through sheer force of will. After some difficulty the Doctor located a shoulder, and gave it a reassuring pat. "Look, don't worry about the Axols. I'll think of something."
Porridge brightened. "You're coming back, then?"
"Always." Having poured himself into an upright position, the Doctor decided on retreat. He staggered a little on the third stride, but recovered quickly enough. "Just make sure no-one tries to execute me on the way out, eh? That's always boring. G'night."
"'Night, Doctor."
Too few people, Porridge decided as his guest weaved towards the exit, understood what was truly amazing about the Universe. For all its mess and noise and pointless struggle, every now and then it came up with someone like the Doctor. One of these days he'd recruit the best minds from a few neighbouring galaxies to work out exactly how such miracles occurred. Right now, though, he had other concerns.
There was still an eighth of the bottle left.
He was woken by muffled curses from the neighbouring antechamber, followed soon afterwards by a series of loud bangs.
"Majesty? Are you there?"
Each new assault on the door sent aftershocks running the length of Porridge's spine. The contents of his skull felt as if they'd been tenderised by an amateur chef and fed back in through a colander. In that moment, he understood better than ever before that the line between emperor and tyrant was really no line at all. The only thing that counted was the mood of the person wielding the big ugly stick, and today he could have given several of history's pettiest dictators a run for their money.
"It's stuck, Majesty. I've called for the guards."
The lock rattled again, without success. The source of the difficulty was an unfamiliar chair wedged in the threshold, its arm preventing the door's handle from being turned on either side. Porridge reeled from the throne and went to look. Somebody had cut the legs down to size, and the upholstery smelt of new sawdust and old biscuit crumbs. It looked like the kind of chair that pets slept in and people spilt mugs on - as unexceptional, in short, as it is possible for a chair to be.
A handwritten notice had been taped to the back.
COMFY, it said.
Porridge sat. It was.
Things were finally looking up.
Rating: G
Genre: General/Humour
Pairings/Characters: The Eleventh Doctor, Porridge
Spoilers for Nightmare in Silver
Word count: 1060
Warnings: None
Summary: Being responsible for all of known space is the loneliest job in the Universe. Porridge seeks advice from the only man in 1,000 galaxies who knows what it feels like. (He is less than helpful.)
There had been an important reason for arranging this meeting, but Emperor Ludens Nimrod Kendrick Cord Longstaff XLI - known as Porridge for convenience's sake - had quite forgotten what it was.
Not that his companion seemed to mind. They'd played a few games of monster chess, and rescued a bottle of something evil-smelling from the kitchen stores. By the third glass the floor had begun lurching in an uncooperative fashion, and Porridge could no longer feel his toes. Luckily the sides of the throne had the grace to stay put, so he clung on and hoped for the best. Every so often fragments of conversation - though at this point it was more of a monologue - came into focus as if swept in on a tide.
"-and I still say I should have won that drinking contest fair and square, only it turned out two of them were androids. Cheating really, if you think about it, but fantastic blokes. They're on my Christmas card list. Here, have some more."
"Ta."
They clinked goblets, and the Doctor leant back until his boots touched the opposite wall, free hand massaging at a crick in his neck. "These chairs have lumps in them. Defender of humanity, and you don't even get any comfy furniture. I'd complain to someone if I were you."
Porridge sighed. "You're a private guest of the Emperor. S'not supposed to be comfy. That's why we have the robes and the beheadings and the- big ugly sticks."
"Sceptres."
"Yeah, those."
In fact Porridge had nothing against sceptres, per se. They were good for making people notice you, which was half the battle when it came to ruling them. The problem was that Porridge had quite enjoyed being ignored. You got so much more done when nobody cared whether or not you did it.
That was the talent that he envied most in the Doctor. The man had found a way of being both anonymous and immortal at the same time, and as a result he could fit an entire revolution into one afternoon. He had taken the Universe's indifference and turned it permanently to his advantage. Everybody else - and that included the Imperator of known space - was left filing the paperwork in the aftermath.
Which reminded him. "Can you be here next week? There's this Axolian trade delegation on their way over, and I've got to do the meet-and-greet. Could use a friendly face."
The Doctor's features rearranged themselves into an expression of intense boredom - or perhaps tranquil fury. It was getting hard to tell. "You'll be wasting your time there. Most dedicated bunch of pen-pushers this end of the galaxy, the Axols. They'll need two days and a qualified majority vote to decide what they want for breakfast."
That fourth glass had been a mistake. The gently drifting stage of intoxication had given way to a depression which coated everything with a grey film, like silt. There was a dull ache behind Porridge's eyes that he knew would only get worse as the night wore on. "Yeah, well. They wanted self-government, and they got it. You can build all the statues and make all the imperial decrees you want; people will ignore 'em if it means they can carry on with whatever makes them happy. Unless I watch out, even the big ugly stick won't be doing me any favours much longer."
Perhaps there'd be an uprising. He'd like that. He could go into exile on some conveniently desolate planet and have people remember him with vague nostalgia, the same as before. Blood would end up getting spilt, though, and there lay the flaw in the fantasy. His conscience was less robust than the Doctor's, and he didn't have centuries in which to forgive himself.
The shift in mood must have been palpable, because nobody had said anything for a good thirty seconds. Porridge, his small frame hunched with misery, was gazing down the neck of the bottle as though he might disappear inside it through sheer force of will. After some difficulty the Doctor located a shoulder, and gave it a reassuring pat. "Look, don't worry about the Axols. I'll think of something."
Porridge brightened. "You're coming back, then?"
"Always." Having poured himself into an upright position, the Doctor decided on retreat. He staggered a little on the third stride, but recovered quickly enough. "Just make sure no-one tries to execute me on the way out, eh? That's always boring. G'night."
"'Night, Doctor."
Too few people, Porridge decided as his guest weaved towards the exit, understood what was truly amazing about the Universe. For all its mess and noise and pointless struggle, every now and then it came up with someone like the Doctor. One of these days he'd recruit the best minds from a few neighbouring galaxies to work out exactly how such miracles occurred. Right now, though, he had other concerns.
There was still an eighth of the bottle left.
He was woken by muffled curses from the neighbouring antechamber, followed soon afterwards by a series of loud bangs.
"Majesty? Are you there?"
Each new assault on the door sent aftershocks running the length of Porridge's spine. The contents of his skull felt as if they'd been tenderised by an amateur chef and fed back in through a colander. In that moment, he understood better than ever before that the line between emperor and tyrant was really no line at all. The only thing that counted was the mood of the person wielding the big ugly stick, and today he could have given several of history's pettiest dictators a run for their money.
"It's stuck, Majesty. I've called for the guards."
The lock rattled again, without success. The source of the difficulty was an unfamiliar chair wedged in the threshold, its arm preventing the door's handle from being turned on either side. Porridge reeled from the throne and went to look. Somebody had cut the legs down to size, and the upholstery smelt of new sawdust and old biscuit crumbs. It looked like the kind of chair that pets slept in and people spilt mugs on - as unexceptional, in short, as it is possible for a chair to be.
A handwritten notice had been taped to the back.
COMFY, it said.
Porridge sat. It was.
Things were finally looking up.
(no subject)
Date: 2016-10-05 04:18 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2016-10-05 07:54 pm (UTC)The Eleventh Doctor may on occasion be an idiot when it comes to telling friends want they want to hear, but he can generally be relied on to give them what they need.
(no subject)
Date: 2016-10-06 12:08 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2016-11-07 10:33 pm (UTC)Great job with Porridge portrayal. He's a really great character.
(no subject)
Date: 2016-11-08 06:42 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2016-11-24 02:20 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2016-11-24 09:19 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2016-12-08 10:47 am (UTC)*HUGS*
(no subject)
Date: 2016-12-08 02:08 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2016-12-09 01:03 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2016-12-09 09:24 am (UTC)